


Too Much

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Jerry has a moment of regret.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> cw: anxiety, stress, suicidal thoughts

When Jerry's done, Dean is silent. His arm has stiffened but not retreated. There is a long, horrible moment where neither man moves; Jerry searches desperately his friend's impassive face, while Dean's eyes are fixed unblinking somewhere beyond his ear. Then, slowly, Dean takes back his arm, gets off the bed and pulls on his coat. Jerry makes a noise in the back of his throat, his hands reaching for Dean and falling back to the mattress, fingers flexing, vision blurring. Dean doesn't look back as he leaves the room.

He's alone. Jerry's alone. Used to it by now, sure, but not like this, not when he had someone just five minutes ago, someone who pulled him close, tucked him under his arm, told him he could say whatever he wanted, whatever was on his mind, had made a joke so Jerry would giggle and want to kiss him, be more comfortable before spilling out his secrets into Dean's lap. Too many all at once. Just one was all he meant, just the thing he was worried about, but once he started he couldn't stop, wanted Dean to hear everything and hated himself even while he was talking.

And now he's alone. Kneeling on the empty bed, tears slowly coursing down his cheeks, hands balled into tight white-knuckled fists, nails slicing crescents into his palms, he's alone. Staring at the door. Willing it to open, praying Dean's just standing outside about to come back. Changed his mind. Then he's falling on to his side, curled up, covering his face, whispering, whining _No_ over and over again, wanting Dean to come back and hold him and tell him it's okay, but Dean's gone, so silent and so fast it's as if he never existed.

He collects himself enough to stand, to pull off his jacket and tie, to wipe his hot face, swollen eyes. It's stuffy in here, in his head, and he opens the window for air that's cold and real and stares out into the air and wonders, thinks how easy it would be to throw himself out on to the street, thinks about the wind whipping past his face, the approaching concrete. He could do it. Easy. _Dean'll see_ , he thinks, chokes. _If he comes back he'll see. See you broken and twisted and bloody in the street._ Jerry hates that, doesn't want Dean should see him that way.

So he could go, too. Could get dressed and leave and never come back. Better for him, maybe, and certainly better for Dean. No need to worry or even think about the skinny Jew he used to know.

Jerry grabs his hair and tugs tugs tugs until the pain is sharp and bright and blinding white, until all his effort, all his consciousness is focused on the screaming roots, no more room for tears and hitching lungs and swollen eyes. Until his thoughts are clear. And with his head still yelling its furious alarm, Jerry strides into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, drenches his shirt, everything, considers stepping under the shower head and spending an hour in a freezing jet.

He looks in the mirror. His monkey face is sopping wet and red and pathetic. He imagines slamming his head into the glass. Easy. Easier than jumping out a window. He pictures cruel shards and scarlet beads and trickles. He imagines pain. He imagines Dean changing his mind, coming back and finding him that way.

Jerry covers his mouth and bites back a scream. He goes to the door, can't make it to the bed again, can't think what happened there. He beats his head in a quiet steady rhythm against the door frame, whispering, mumbling, weeping quietly, imagining Dean there so he can explain, apologise, beg. _Too much_ , he thinks. _Too much all at once. Like everything else._

He looks at the mirror again. Sees the red mark on his forehead. The pain's not bad. Not enough. Not what he deserves. Deserves more. Worse. 

He can't breathe. He wishes he didn't feel this much. It's too hard, he thinks. Too hard. Too hard loving someone who likes you. Too hard when you're not your best friend's best friend. When he doesn't think of you the way you think of him. Doesn't agonise over every little thing. Doesn't cry over you. Think about you. Want you. And even that Jerry didn't say, wouldn't ever. He was just sad, just upset, and Dean was so kind and said he could tell him. And Jerry hesitated, wishes now he'd trusted that uncertainty. Told Dean he might not like it. And Dean said it was all right, and suddenly Jerry was telling him everything, all the sad things, all the secret things, and feeling that huge kind arm stiffen, still going, still talking, begging himself to stop, to shut up, to take it back, but vomiting pain all over his friend.

Jerry steps back into the bedroom. Paces. Sniffs and chokes and sobs. "Please," he whispers, prays, throwing out into the universe for whoever still cares. "Please, please." Voice tapering, squeaking, disappearing. He wants to go home. Where's home? He thinks about being tucked against Dean's side and wants to die. He wants to go away. He wants Dean to come back. He wants to be alone. He wants never to be alone ever again. He wishes Dean would come through the door even if it's only to tell him he never wants to see him again. Wants to forget about him. Forget about sharing beds and giggling at midnight, about slipping away from crowds and hiding comic books, about shy kisses on the cheek. Forget.

The door rattles.

Jerry gasps and feels his knees buckle; the bed's nearby, and he falls on to it, balling fists in mussed sheets, staring at the wood, at the twisting door knob and creaking hinges, at the beautiful man who comes through the door and closes it behind him. Looks at him. _Looks at him._

"C'mere."

Jerry goes to him, hides his face in his neck, feels one warm hand between his shoulder blades, breath in his ear. Telling him he's brave. Telling him he's all right. Telling him sorry, he needed a minute, but it's all right now. And Jerry weeping, knowing tears are slipping down his collar, saying he's sorry, saying he'll do better, won't dump so much of his shit on Dean next time. And Dean shaking his head, hushing him, holding him. And Jerry's fingers twisting in his shirt. And Dean's fingers stroking lightly the nape of his neck. And their breath syncing, their hearts matching rhythms, their voices low and overlapping and going away. Unnecessary. And holding each other for God knows how long, sharing things for which there are no words.


End file.
